


It Has To Be Enough

by worrylesswritemore



Series: people screwing in trousers [3]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: F/F, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Canon, and none of it is for the better, anyways this is how cordelia and charlotte met and fell in love, bc they were high school sweetheart and yes this is my personal hc, just a lot of period typical stuff man, set in the 50s and 60s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: Cordelia is crying now, and Charlotte takes her in her arms, whispering comforting words into the gold spindles of her hair, “Time changes everything, ‘Delia. I mean, they’ve already desegregated. You never know what other changes will be mad—”“Stop trying to make it better,” Cordelia shouts, frustrated, “Because it won’t get better. Not here. Not now.”And she’s right.Because they live in a midwest town where Charlotte is the only one of three black families of residence, where racial and homophobic slurs are said so casually that it breaks her heart every time, where Charlotte’s brother was frisked and taken into custody for simply walking down the street of a white neighborhood.“What do you want me to do about it, ‘Delia?” Charlotte asks, knowing that she would steal the sun to light that smile again.But Cordelia doesn’t ask her of anything impossible. She just simply says, “Hold me.”And Charlotte can do that, so she does. And it isn't enough, but it has to be for now.:: - ::During a time that is against them, Charlotte and Cordelia struggle to find happiness in the small things.





	It Has To Be Enough

**Author's Note:**

> finally! I have contributed to the astounding lack of lesbians in this fandom.

She remembers.

The hot asphalt on her knees. The shouts and cries around her. The paling woman on the ground, her absence of breath.

Charlotte remembers moving, moving, moving—her actions being mere muscle memory. Open the mouth, clear the passageway, hands rhythmically pump her chest, close her nose and begin helping her breathe in and out.

After a minute, the woman gasps into Charlotte’s mouth, spitting rancid right in her face as she struggles to get her own breathing back. Charlotte wipes the spit on her sleeve, waving off the woman’s immediate gasps at apologies.

And Charlotte felt the eyes on her—some in abject horror because of her skin color, some in confusion because of her success, and even some in quiet awe—but they meant nothing to her.

Because she knew.

She was just fourteen, but she knew then that this would be her destiny.

:: - ::

They were nine-years-old. Charlotte met her at her lemonade stand.

She even hates lemonade, in all honesty, and that nickel was supposed to go to a new pop down at the grocery store, but the ramshackled lemonade stand, with a sign of _Cordelia’s Pink Lemonade_ in bright, magic marker bubble-letters, makes her pause.

She doesn’t know if she would have made a decision if the girl didn’t call out to her.

“Hey, do you want some?” She says, her pigtails bouncing in the wind as she unabashedly called out to someone like her, “Only a nickel!”

Charlotte grips the nickel tight in her fist, frozen for a moment.

“Sure.” She eventually says—with hesitation, just like her mother always instructed her to do in one of these neighborhoods.

But the white girl doesn’t seem mean or scary as her father would describe in his cautionary tales, as she smiles widely, invitingly at Charlotte—wide enough that Charlotte can even see the outlines of her missing teeth.

“I made it myself,” The girl tells her, beaming with pride as she pours Charlotte a glass, “My mom tried to help me, but I told her that I had already made the sign that said ‘ _Cordelia’s_ lemonade’ and not ‘Cordelia’s _mom’s_ lemonade.’”

As Cordelia prattles on, Charlotte takes an experimental drink of the lemonade. The overly sugary, watered taste slaps her in the face, and Charlotte is very glad that she’s mastered her poker face by now or else the cringe would have been undeniable prominent.

Cordelia trails off, prompting anxiously, “So? Give me your rating?”

Charlotte looks at her and says honestly, “It took my breath away.” To overcompensate, she downs the small glass right then and there, locking her jaw and forcing herself to keep it down.

When Charlotte looks back at her, Cordelia has stars in her eyes that match the gold spindles of her hair.

“Here, have another,” Cordelia says, giddy and giggly, “On the house.”

Charlotte smiles weakly but thanks her politely, reluctantly pulling away from the sunshine girl in her lemonade stand. She gravitates back to the sidewalk, to the comfort of boundaries and familiarity. She’s ready to go back home, maybe give the lemonade to her brother or plant, when she hears Cordelia call out to her.

“So where are you headed to, anyway?”

Charlotte shrugs, the possibility of the afternoon far too wide and vast to explain.

But then Cordelia bites her lip and says with feigned nonchalance, “Well, you could, like, stay—if you want. I mean, every business needs a marketing executive. We can split the money half-and-half.”

Charlotte looks at her in her makeshift stand and her bubble letters and golden hair and kind eyes.

“Okay.” Charlotte says, unable to reign it in any longer.

Cordelia smiles, and something in Charlotte’s heart does a little _kick kick kick._

:: - ::

They’re sitting in Mrs. Hawkin’s homeroom in fifth grade, doodling on the margins of their homework and whispering to one another.

“You know how sugar cookies are a thing,” Cordelia says, a conspiracy, “What about salt cookies? Is that anything?”

Charlotte snorts, pointing out, “Yeah, they’re called _your_ sugar cookies.”

Cordelia reaches down and pinches the inside of Charlotte’s thigh, making her barely capable of holding in her squeal. They subtly turn to look at one another, faces flushed red and mouths tightly pressed together, before they burst into laughter simultaneously.

“Principal’s office again, ladies?” Mrs. Hawkin says dispassionately, raising her gaze from her book only long enough to point them in the direction of the door.

As they walk down the hall, their hands keep brushing up against one another, and both girls keep pretending that it’s an accident.

:: - ::

“Christopher Bowley?” Charlotte exclaims incredulously, ignoring the lurch in her stomach.

Cordelia nods, distaste evident in her features.

“He asked me during gym class,” Cordelia tells her, “And he was all _sweaty_ and _gross_.”

Charlotte didn’t have the heart to point out that he was _always_ sweaty and gross. Really, _every_ boy in their eighth grade class was sweaty and gross—well, to _Charlotte_ , at least.

But maybe not to Cordelia, though if she’s ever had a crush, she’s never told Charlotte about it.

Which is _stupid_ because they tell each other _everything_.

Cordelia seems to be looking at Charlotte intently, gauging her reaction.

Charlotte steadies her hand and says coolly, “He’s nice.”

Cordelia scoffs, “He eats  _fishsticks_ for lunch— _everyday._ ”

“So you’re not going with him to the dance?” She asks, pretending not to care when she so desperately does care.

Cordelia dodges the question, “What would you do, if he asked you out?”

Charlotte rolls her eyes, “He wouldn’t.” His dad is the proud owner of a confederate flag that is displayed proudly on the yellowy lawn of their trailer.

Cordelia asks again, more skittish this time, “Well, what if _a_ boy asked you out?”

Charlotte discreetly glances over at Cordelia, but the sunshine girl is studiously looking down at her lap.

Charlotte tries to keep the tremor from her voice as she answers quietly, “I’d say no.”

Cordelia stiffens, “To every boy?”

Charlotte looks away just as Cordelia looks back.

“Yeah.” Charlotte says, “To every boy.”

That weekend, after Cordelia effectively shuts down Christopher Bowley and every other boy that asks her, they decide to have a sleepover at Cordelia’s house rather than going to the dance.

Cordelia’s parents and sister have all migrated to their separate bedrooms, leaving just Cordelia and Charlotte alone in Cordelia’s mess of a bright pink-and-purple room. Charlotte is trying to explain to her what _sexcells_ are, but Cordelia just keeps giggling, and Charlotte warns her not to wake up her family, and then Cordelia kisses her--just a brush of lips, of stuttered breaths and hesitancy.

Cordelia pulls back and watches Charlotte, her terrified, ghostly pale face illuminated by the bedside lamp.

Her mind and lips buzzing, Charlotte leans back in, chasing that brush of lips again and again and again.

:: - ::

In high school, Charlotte and Cordelia have their own labs.

Charlotte’s lab is in the science department, with chemicals and formulas and the poking and prodding of dissections.

Cordelia’s lab is in the home ec department, with chemicals and formulas and the stirring and molding of baking.

They are branching out, but they always gravitate back to each other.

“I dissected a rabbit today.” Charlotte tells her, giddy.

“I cooked a cobbler today.” Cordelia tells her, giggly.

They are lying on Charlotte’s bed, with the door closed and their hands entwined. Cordelia has her head on Charlotte chest, spindles of golden hair frizzing up and tickling Charlotte’s chin. Charlotte continues to talk about college applications but Cordelia just studies the twisty curls of Charlotte’s hair, winding them around on her finger.

Charlotte takes the hint of her silence and shuts up.

After a second, Cordelia speaks, “My mom doesn’t think girls should go to college.”

“That’s stupid.” Charlotte says because it’s true, but saying so does not make Cordelia feel better.

“You know what she told me, when I gave her a slice of cobbler?” Cordelia says, laughing in a way that makes it clear to Charlotte that this isn’t a punchline, “ _You’re going to make your husband happy and healthy, ‘Delia.”_

Charlotte sighs, “She doesn’t mean anything by it—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cordelia exclaims sharply, rising up, _“She does.”_

Cordelia looks away from Charlotte, like she always does when she’s about to cry.

“Do you want to go to college?” Charlotte asks gently.

“No, but,” Cordelia says, with effort, “It should be _my_ decision. Not anyone else’s.

“And I don’t want to be a housewife,” She continues, “And that should be _my_ decision. And I want to start my own business and try to be successful in my own right, and that should be _my_ decision. And I want to marry a black woman, and that should be _my_ decision—”

Cordelia is crying now, and Charlotte takes her in her arms, whispering comforting words into the gold spindles of her hair, “Time changes everything, ‘Delia. I mean, they’ve already desegregated. You never know what other changes will be mad—”

_“Stop trying to make it better_ ,” Cordelia shouts, frustrated, “ _Because it won’t get better_ . Not _here_ . Not _now_.”

And she’s right.

Because they live in a midwest town where Charlotte is the only one of three black families of residence, where racial and homophobic slurs are said so _casually_ that it breaks her heart _every_ time, where Charlotte’s brother was frisked and taken into custody for simply walking down the street of a white neighborhood.

“What do you want me to do about it, ‘Delia?” Charlotte asks, knowing that she would steal the sun to light that smile again.

But Cordelia doesn’t ask her of anything impossible. She just simply says, “Hold me.”

And Charlotte can do that, so she does. And it isn't enough, but it has to be for now.

:: - ::

When Charlotte shows Cordelia the acceptance letter, Cordelia lets out a scream that can be heard over at the next county.

“Charlotte!” Cordelia grips her into a hug, bouncing both of them up and down, “You’re going to be a _doctor_.“

“At least let me get my PhD before you start calling me that.” Charlotte laughs, of which Cordelia smothers with a kiss.

_“My doctor.”_ Cordelia whispers against her lips, starry-eyed and lovestruck.

They don’t talk about the fact that the university is thousands of miles away, in New York City. They don’t talk about what this might mean for _them_.

Because this is Charlotte’s moment, dreaming of a better future with the love of her life in her arms, and that has to be enough for now.

:: - ::

“Come with me.” Charlotte pleads, and she says it like it’s going to be so easy, like they won’t have to worry about rent and bills and side-eyes and hate-crimes, like it will all be pink lemonade and cream.

But it won’t be easy, and Charlotte knows this, and Cordelia knows this, but still the sunshine girl smiles and says, _“Yes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> hey, if you liked it and would like to encourage me to do more things like this, leave a review.


End file.
